outfit

Waker's fingertips brushed over the wand protruding from her skirt pocket. Her eyes swept the corridor with a careful wariness, but lacked the usual suspicion they devoted almost wholly to Prefect rounds; tonight, it was unease, fear, and embarrassment which animated her expression. In looking for perpetrators of Hogwarts' clear-cut clock laws, the Head Girl might also have been scouring the castle for remaining posters of the epically mortifying persuasion-- though she was loathe to find any.

The lights in this hall were dimmer than in the last. It was less frequented, that was true-- but that only meant the after-dark traffic was bound to be more memorable. She pulled her wand from its resting place and whispered, "Lumos," the glow falling on stony corners and unassuming niches and high windowsills.

"Do you... hear something?" She turned to Grace, her partner in rounds. Waker had not been as chatty with the girl since she'd come clean to George-- as much out of humiliation and guilt as awkwardness. And there was plenty of awkward to go around. But the Easter holiday had left Waker with new resolve. She wanted to patch things up, to be there for Grace, who undoubtedly needed friends and was going through things that were... well, somehow larger than break-ups and broken hearts. Unfortunately, Kitty Li had put a damper in those plans, and Waker had held Grace's gaze for all of two seconds at the most tonight.

Her shoulders falling as the sound dissolved as quickly as it had come, she tried to save her cool (and her poise) by rounding them and straightening her spine. Waker was tall, her legs longer than most girls' and lanky as a fawn's. She always looked a bit out of sorts at times like these.

"Sorry, Grace. I'm..." Hmm, to incriminate herself, or hold back a confession? "I guess it was only the rain." There was barely a drizzle in the sky outside, but that didn't mean the windows couldn't howl now and then. Hogwarts was a very old place, the castle temperamental as any teenager tossing in his sleep. Perhaps it felt its age in its bones.

The sound of a stream of warm liquid hitting the bottom of a very deep vase made more noise than it ought.  Certainly more noise than the drizzle in the gutters, and the normal sounds of toilet-making in a bathroom.  The thunder of the lemony-yellow stream in the voluminous pot (nearly three feet tall) echoed again against itself and the sound must have carried eerily down the corridors.

"...Steady now, old Fig..."

At least the fire was out.  All the portraits nearby had emptied in disgust at Figaro Sellaphix's method of extinguishing a conflagration, but Figaro himself was feeling pretty entertained by the whole situation.   Although the fire was out, Fig's tank wasn't empty, so he felt no harm in carrying on. Besides, the corridors were deserted at this time of night, well past curfew. 

The pee thunder and the strange Hogwarts acoustics hid the contrary from his notice.  The Head Girl and a Prefect were just rounding the corner.

Grace squinted her eyes at the darkened corridor in front of her and allowed her mind to wander to how fantastical it might be if something actually jumped out from the shadows and tried to devour her and her other half in this round of prefect duties. Drumming up those sorts of unlikely scenarios was helping her get through the night. When she had first seen who she was paired with, she thought it would be easy to separate the business (doing prefect duties) with the personal (working closely with her best friend's ex girlfriend who cheated on him). But the longer the evening had gone on, the more difficult it was becoming to quell her annoyance and desire to really give Waker Nolan a piece of her mind.

She kept telling herself that she had to keep from doing that though. It was George's battle to wage against Waker, not hers. She was simply going to be there to support him when he needed it because that was what best friends did. Grace would always be loyal to George first and any girl he dated second.

But she had actually really liked Waker—had even been friendly with the Ravenclaw years before she started dating George because of their shared drive and Prefect responsibilities. If Grace had liked Waker any less back when the Head Girl title was chosen, she would have been more upset that didn't get it. And when George and Waker did start dating, Grace had genuinely been excited that the relationship would be a wonderful thing for her best friend. Waker could “tame” him in a way and maybe help refine some of his roughened edges. George might grow up and be nudged towards more responsible, adult pursuits.

None of these past thoughts or pipe dreams, however, lessened the shock what Waker had done. There were so many things Grace had wanted to ask and hadn't. Instead, she was left biting her tongue and trying her hardest to be cordial.

Grace was drawn out of her thoughts by Waker's inquiry. She listened to see if she heard anything and then shook her head. She was quite content to return to her inner reverie of thoughts when Waker spoke again only this time it sounded like she was about to say something more....personal.

Waker's use of the word “Sorry” immediately made Grace wonder if she really was sorry about what she had done to George. If she was going to say she was sorry, was it genuine or was it because she knew Grace was good friends with George and might be able to help her smooth things over?

These were the kinds of things Grace thought about. And they were the reason why she tried to hard to not say anything at all to Waker because there was no way that she could look the other girl in the face and tell her “It's okay” or “I understand.” Because Grace would always want to know why Waker had broken her friend's heart and why she had ruined a good thing.

So Grace said nothing and nodded. And sighed. And then she went back to scouring the hall in front of them. Soon, they rounded a corner and were assaulted by not just another noise but also a visual this time.

Even in a darkened hallway, Grace was quite certain she could see a pair of fully exposed asscheeks in front of her. It caused her to stop dead in her tracks and yelp, “Whoah! Good Godric that's a full moon!” She shielded her eyes (out of respect and horror) and demanded, “Identify yourself!, Oh Pantsless One!”

The sudden voice behind him startled Figaro into clutching for his trousers and nearly falling off the chair upon which he was perched. 

"Nooo ho ho ho!"

He half-laughed, half wailed in delighted embarrassment, as he fumbled and stumbled to put everything away and find a way to not be seen.  The alcove was shallow, but dark.  He ducked around the corner next to the vase, and crouched down.  Hopefully he was out of sight, at least until who ever was out there got closer!

He poked one eye out, just enough to see the girls lit walking towards.  It was two older girls - he recognized (shit!) the Head Girl, and Grace Eddy, a prefect.

"No one's here.  Go about your business.  Better for everyone!" he called down the hall. 

The awkwardness between them might have filled an ocean, but any tepid attempts at conversation were cut short by the sudden appearance of... well... too much.

Waker raised her wand and rather wish she hadn’t; light spilled over what was clearly an underage backside of some non-statue. The knights and paintings and gargoyles and statues of Hogwarts were plenty animated, but this was easily identifiable as human, even in the evening light.

Waker stopped as if she were inches from treading upon chewed gum or a cat’s tail. She flinched, her lips pursed then and tightened across a wide, somewhat babyish face. Half adult-in-charge, half bewildered schoolgirl, she opened her mouth to comment on Grace’s... commentary... but no words came out.

Finally, though, she managed.

“You heard her,” she called. “Indecent exposure is against the rules...” Who would have thought? Hardly a month left, and Waker’s history as Head Girl was coming to an exposed fruition. She did not wish to dwell.

She wandered closer, wand held high, and paused where she’d seen the boy disappear. Bending like a doe on awkward legs, as if her very limbs feared to traipse into the trap that was teenaged boys peeing in the dark, she use her lit wand to search for the guilty party. Party indeed. “If you were doing what I think you were doing...”

She frowned, her eyes finding the boy’s silhouette, and then adjusting rather quickly to the boy. The scent was unmistakeable. “Oh, god.” She raised a splayed hand to her forehead, her mouth the picture of disgust and distress, a sort of teeth-baring frown. She stopped herself just in time. There was no need to repeat herself. You were doing what I think you were doing.

“Come... out of there.” She tried to sound authoritative. She gestured with her wand, straightening her shoulders again. Suddenly, the hand over her forehead slid down and clamped tightly over her eyes. Through splayed fingers, she stared in his general direction warily. “But put it away first!”

She looked over her shoulder to Grace, a silent sigh written on her face.

Grace's annoyance with Waker had been forgotten with the offending exposure of too much skin by one of their classmates, who was still to be identified at this point. What a great night this was turning out to be!

Seeing Waker advance after the offender despite his protests, Grace dropped her own hands from her eyes and followed suit. Was this what they had to look forward to at the end of the year? Seeing naked backsides on a regular basis was not in the prefect manual, for sure!

Grace instinctively brandished her wand as they advance, but a rational Grace would have realized that there was no reason to really do so in this instance, unless she was expecting and retaliation of some sort. And that would just be....gross.

She scrunched up her nose and demanded of the culprit, "Exactly what are you doing....doing that here? Couldn't you wait to make it to a bathroom instead of defacing....school property....with your....tinkling?"

"Everything is away!" Fig shouted back indignantly.  He wouldn't have the audacity to deliberately moon anyone until his Seventh Year at his last End of Term Feast, or so the prophecies said. 

True to his word, Figaro was properly dressed by the time wand light fell on his form.  A stroke of lightening cut across the sky and shone through windows at the end of the hall.  Thunder soon followed.

Figaro was grinning in the dark like a nervous Cheshire cat.  "There was a fire," he said, nodding squinting in the harsh light.  "In the pot," he nodded towards it.  "And I ... put it out..."

"Broke a rule, but saved the school from a third fire.  We could call it even," he suggested.